Skin Deep
by melissa.kay.568
Summary: Mirror, mirror, on the wall ... Dean's not feeling so fine, and Sam thinks he knows why. After a disagreement with his brother, Dean enlists Castiel's help to find the witch who put a spell on him. But will she reverse it, or will Dean have to deal with being somewhat less than awesome for twenty-four hours - or longer? Not if he can help it ...


**Skin Deep**

It was a morning like any other; for Dean Winchester, anyway. Drag the body out of bed, plod to the adjoining bathroom of whatever dive he and Sam were calling home this week while on a hunt; commit to his daily shit, shower and shave, then …

But wait. What was this?!

He ran his palm along the slope of his cheekbone and jaw as the water trickled between his fingers and fell into the sink. Something didn't feel right. Didn't feel natural. Was that … a lump? He searched again, unwilling or unable to chance a look in the mirror just yet. He knew what it was, or what it felt like, but that couldn't be possible. Big, hairy moles don't just materialize out of nowhere. Or do they? Had he spent more time out in the sun than usual, lately? He didn't think so. Due to the nature of their job, most of the grittier, physical work tended to occur after the sun went down. Dean blew out a shaky breath and forced himself to look in the mirror.

And there it was, in all its glory. It was a mole, all right. A big one, too. About the size of a dime, right smack-bang in the centre of his cheek. Not only that, but there was not one but two bristly black hairs sticking out of it, like malevolent candles on an unwanted birthday cake.

It wasn't the only thing that was different about his reflection, though. The hair that he so carefully coiffed until it looked like he didn't give a shit despite spending almost half an hour on it every morning was lank, lacking volume, and worst of all, _greasy._ What the hell? _I need to change shampoos,_ Dean thought. _What the hell happened to me while I was a demon? I'm gonna kill Crowley …_

South of his neckline something else didn't feel quite kosher. Dean blinked at the sight of what looked like two protruding sacks under his t-shirt. No. No way. That cannot be. He'd always made sure he stayed in tip-top shape – maybe not as much as Sam, perhaps, but enough to keep the ladies satisfied. And they were _always_ satisfied. But it appeared that in the six weeks he could barely remember, he'd forgotten his morning sit-up and push-up regime, because staring back at him right now were … man-boobs. Moobs. Bitch-tits. Whatever you wanted to call them.

Choking back his horror, Dean lifted his t-shirt. Yep, there they were - flabby, gelatinous mounds of feminine-looking breast-tissue, with swollen nipples into the bargain. Dean shuddered. How the hell did he let _that_ happen?! He'd had _pecs_ , for Christ's sake! Just _yesterday_! And his stomach was beginning to protrude over the waistband of his faded jeans, the ones that always fit like a glove. The ones that always drew admiring female stares for the way they made his bum look. Now, though, the fly was straining to keep the beer belly contained.

 _This has got to be a dream_ , Dean thought. _No, a nightmare. Most definitely a nightmare._

'Sam!' he growled, letting his t-shirt drop. Despite his mounting terror, he did not want his supremely sculpted brother to see him this way. The mole was bad enough. The moobs and beer-belly, however … The last thing he needed was a lecture from Sam on how the body was your temple and all that New Age mumbo-jumbo. He would not, repeat, _not_ , ingest wheatgerm unless the ingestion of such was the key to stopping the Apocalypse.

Sam peered around the doorframe. 'What … _oh._ ' His little-big brother scratched his chin. Blinked. Did that head-shake thing he does when he's perplexed. Except this time it seemed to Dean as if his brother was trying to stifle a grin – or worse, a chuckle.

'You wouldn't be thinking of laughing at me, would you? Because that would _not_ be a good idea.'

Sam frowned, clearly hurt. 'Why would I laugh at you, Dean?'

Typical Sammy. He always knew how to work those puppy-dog eyes to great effect. Dean decided to give him the benefit of a doubt. For now.

'Clearly this is some kind of witchcraft. Except who would want to do this to _me_?'

'Gee, I don't know, Dean …' Sam replied. 'Only … every witch we've ever hunted?'

'Good point.' Dean winced at his reflection. 'Guess we'd better start looking for hex-bags.'

They tore the room apart, but found nothing. Afterward, both brothers sat on the end of Sam's bed, because Dean's double looked like a bomb hit it. He sighed. 'Well, we've definitely lost our cleaning bond.'

'I'm hungry,' Sam decided. 'Are you hungry?'

'Flipping mattresses always works up an appetite,' Dean agreed. 'Just let me get dressed, first.'

When Dean finally emerged from the bathroom, Sam _did_ laugh. 'Dean, it's almost ninety degrees outside. You do _not_ need all those layers.' His gaze fell to Dean's bottom half. 'And when did you start wearing sweats? I didn't know you even owned a pair.'

'Shut up,' Dean muttered. 'Let's go.'

'I'm sorry, but I'm not going out in public with you wearing that hat. Where did you get that, anyway? Was Fargo having a garage sale?'

'Sammy, if you're gonna quote movies, at least quote _good_ ones.' Dean tugged on the flaps, jamming the red and black plaid deerstalker hat harder over his ears. He was glad he'd decided, while on a hunt up north a few years ago, to hold onto the hat. He knew it would prove useful one day. Little did he imagine _how_.

Sam sighed. 'All right. But we're taking the booth down the back, this time.'

Dean frowned at his brother. 'Wow, Sammy. I didn't know you were so superficial.'

'I'm not, I just … Never mind.'

'It has occurred to me, in the past five or ten seconds, that we might need a little angelic intervention here,' Dean said, drowning his pancakes in maple syrup then licking it off of his fingers. 'If anyone can heal me, put me back to the way I'm supposed to be, surely it's Cas, right?'

'If it's not a spell, yeah, I guess. Although I'm not sure that's how his power works.' Sam dug into his noodle salad with gusto. 'I think you actually have to be sick, or wounded. You just look … lazy.'

Dean blinked at him. 'Lazy?'

'Dean, you look like an Alaskan couch potato. With the emphasis on potato.'

'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, didn't it occur to you that that's what your uh … new facial feature looks like? One of those potatoes that sprouts hairs when it's …'

'I think you'd better quit while you're miles behind,' Dean interrupted.

The brothers sat in silence, eating their breakfasts. A waitress arrived to refill their coffee and almost but-not-quite managed to remain neutral at the sight of Dean, whom she'd been ogling only the day before. A little on the fleshy side herself, with a round, plain face, she hadn't had the confidence to flirt with him openly. In fact, she'd been a trembling mess, almost dumping Dean's coffee in his lap. Sam remembered the way her face fell when his brother, ever the sensitive type, had asked her if the other, blonde waitress was on duty. He glanced at the girl's nametag. 'Beth … That's a pretty name.'

Dean stared at him, but said nothing.

'Um … thanks,' Beth replied. 'Would you like some more coffee?'

'Yeah, that would be great, thanks.'

'What are you doing?' Dean wanted to know, the second the girl had disappeared over the other side of the diner. '" _Beth, that's a pretty name_?! What is this, a pity-stop?'

Sam winced. 'Do you hear yourself, Dean? The way you treated that girl yesterday … I was _embarrassed_ for you. You never used to act like that. What's with you, lately?'

'You mean apart from the growth on my face and my newly acquired man-boobs? Nothing.'

'You didn't have any of that, yesterday,' Sam pointed out. 'Yet you still managed to be a complete douche to that waitress. She might not be Megan Fox, okay, but she doesn't deserve to be treated with contempt.'

Dean floundered. 'I didn't treat her with contempt.'

'You did, Dean. She obviously felt nervous around you, and you made her feel worse by asking for the hotter waitress. Very cool. _Not_.'

'Hey, in my defence, I did _not_ say the word "hotter". I said "blonde."

Sam reached out and waved Dean's accusing finger away. 'Don't point that thing at me. You _know_ what you did. And the old Dean would have felt really shitty about it. Actually – no, the old Dean wouldn't have said it at all. He would have been flattered by her attention. He would have said something nice to her in response. Because the old Dean was a decent guy. This one … I don't know.'

'So what the hell are you saying?"

Sam sat back in his seat. Shrugged. 'I'm saying, maybe it's Karma.'

The look on Dean's face, underneath that ridiculous hat, was priceless. 'What's Karma? Whatever's doing this?'

'Maybe.'

'Sam, you _do_ know Karma's not an entity? It's a theological principle.'

'That.' Sam pointed. 'That, right there. The old Dean never would have said that.'

Dean threw down his fork. 'Will you quit with the new Dean/old Dean crap? It's ruining my appetite.' He slid from their booth. 'I'm going to go and call Cas. You do whatever the hell you want … Hey, maybe hook up with your favourite waitress.'

'Very funny, Dean.'

Little did the Winchesters know, but they were being watched; very carefully, from a safe distance. The spell worked, but then she had known that it would. The mortal deserved his fate. It was a pity that the spell didn't last longer. The witch repressed a smirk. That hat sure was worth the trouble she'd gone to. She was willing to bet it hid a multitude of sins – as, no doubt, did the puffy parka, the comfortable sweats and at least two layers of plaid.

He'd think twice next time he chose Dippy Donna over Beth, her best waitress.

Back at the motel room, Dean was in a state.

'Back hair!' he raged, as Castiel stood by, looking bewildered. 'I have _back hair_ , Cas! Look!'

Cas made a face. 'Okay, Dean. I believe you.'

'No, look! Really, look! This is a spell. Do you have any way of finding out who cast it? It's got to be a witch, right? Just do what you do and find out who it is so I can …'

'If there are no hex bags; then that points to much more powerful magic,' Cas mused. 'Maybe even fairy level.'

'Fairy?' Dean thankfully slid back into one of his three shirts. 'What; like Sidhe?'

'Not exactly, no,' Cas replied. 'More like … Queen Mab.'

'Queen Mab? The one from the King Arthur mythology? She actually exists?'

The angel nodded. 'Unfortunately, yes.'

'So, she's a bad fairy.'

'She has her moments. Mostly she likes to play moral pranks on people.'

'Like the Trickster. Or maybe it _is_ the Trickster. If it talks like a duck, and walks like a duck …'

'It's not Gabriel.'

Dean stared at Cas. 'How do you know?'

'He's … on a sabbatical. After the other archangels found out he faked his own death, he decided to … take a powder, is how he put it. But I don't know how taking powder has anything to do with disappearing for a while. How do you _take_ a powder, anyway? Do you ingest it or snort it …'

'Cas, focus. We're talking about me, now.'

'Yes, Dean,' said the angel, wearily. 'Somehow, though, we're _always_ talking about you.'

Dean blinked. 'Wow. Well then, tell us how you _really_ feel.'

'I'm sorry, Dean. I just have a lot on my mind.'

'What, like Hannah?' Dean managed a grin. 'Honestly pal, I told you. You're good to go, there.'

'No, not Hannah. And it's not like that.'

'That's not how _she_ feels.'

It was Cas's turn to blink. 'What?'

'She has feelings for you, man. Big feels. It's obvious. To everyone _but_ you, that is.'

Castiel waved him away, dismissively. 'Will you take off that hat? I can't take you seriously, wearing that thing.'

'I would, but it's keeping my ears warm.'

Cas reached out and pulled the deerstalker hat from Dean's head. And gasped. 'Dean … uh … what is that thing on your face?'

'It's a mole. Can't you see that?' snapped Dean, irritably.

Cas's blue eyes widened. 'It's moving, Dean. I think it wants to communicate with us.'

'Oh, hardy-har. The angel got himself a sense of humour. Can you get rid of it? The mole, not the sense of humour. _Although_ …'

The angel grinned, which was an unusual expression for him. Dean wasn't sure he liked it. 'What are you smiling at?'

'Well, I could give you ten dollars so you can go downtown and pay to have a rat gnaw that thing off of your face.'

Dean's jaw dropped. 'You know, sometimes I wish Metatron hadn't given you all those pop culture references. You're as bad as Sammy.'

Cas chuckled. 'Sorry … just really wanted to use that one. Never thought I'd get the chance.'

'Yeah, all right', said Dean, begrudgingly. 'It _did_ fit, didn't it. But then, that's John Candy for you. Anyway … can you help me, or what?'

Cas grew serious. 'I can, but it might come to nothing. I'll have to go and talk to my sources. Queen Mab is notoriously difficult to locate when she doesn't want to be found.'

'Great,' Dean muttered, stooping to pick up the hat Cas had dropped in his shock. 'Just great.' He looked up to say something else to the angel, but the room was empty.

While Sam was busy investigating the case they'd actually arrived in town for, and Dean sat stewing in their motel room, Castiel visited the local magic shop. Hidden in a back alley, like so many of these kinds of stores tended to be, it had purple curtains in the window and stars painted on the glass itself. Unabashedly Wiccan, the place was called "Blessed Be". _So, Xerxes is mellowing in her old age,_ thought Cas. _Hope that doesn't mean she's lost touch with all her old contacts_. _Or this could be for nought._

The air inside was clogged with a suffocating incense. Cas literally had to peer through a veil of smoke to see where he was going. Once at the counter, and with no one in sight, Cas found a silver bell and rang it for service.

'Yeah, yeah, all right. Keep your pants on.' Xerxes plodded out from behind the curtain separating the back of the shop from the counter. Catching sight of Castiel, she sized him up, and raised an eyebrow. 'Or not! The angel Castiel, I presume? Nice vessel. Very … Compact.'

Ignoring her innuendo, Cas got straight to the point. 'Hello, again, Xerxes. It's been a while. I'm looking for Mab. Have you seen her?'

'Oh my cousin doesn't make it to these parts very often these days,' sighed the old woman. 'She's always off on her adventures. How I wish _I_ were young again, footloose and fancy-free. I might have even picked up a nice young thing like yourself, in my time.'

Cas wasn't sure what to do with the old woman's flirtations. "Oh, you're not old" just sounded downright patronising. 'Mab's not exactly a spring chicken,' he pointed out. 'She was around when Arthur was questing for the Holy Grail.'

'Oh, but she's managed to keep her looks, whereas I …' Xerxes trailed off. 'No matter. I'm sure I can summon her for you, if she's in the general vicinity. What's this about, anyway?'

'Well, I'm not sure if you know of the Winchesters. The eldest, Dean, has had a spell put on him. We can't find any hex bags anywhere, so …'

'So you thought my cousin might be responsible.' Xerxes sighed. 'Let's face it, she probably is. What kind of spell?'

Cas winced. 'He's … well … _ugly_. Overnight. Big hairy moles, back hair, bad breath … the whole bit. Actually, he kind of always had bad breath. But the rest …'

Xerxes nodded, her silver hair bobbing on her shoulders. 'Yes, yes. An inside-out spell is what that sounds like. Very Mab. She likes to hit 'em where they live, if you catch my drift.'

'Not really, no,' Cas admitted.

Xerxes studied him, calmly. 'Your friend has obviously gotten on the wrong side of Mab, which is, shockingly, easy to do. She's become one of those keyboard warriors – you know; the kind that haunt social media sites and call people out for being politically incorrect.'

'That's Dean all right. Politically incorrect.'

'And a chauvinist? Mab hates chauvinists with a fiery passion.'

'He has his moments. I'd say he's a misogynist before he's a chauvinist.'

'No real difference, to me.' Xerxes replied. 'So why do you want this obvious shrine to society restored to his former, ahem, glory? You got designs?'

'What do you mean?'

'Are you interested in him? Romantically?'

'I … don't swing that way, no.' Cas answered, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. The old bird might have been centuries old but her eyes were still sharp. And the way she looked at him made him feel as though she could see right through Jimmy Novak to the real Castiel.

'Right,' she said, sounding unconvinced. 'Well, I'll get to summoning my cousin if you'll watch the shop for me. Don't worry – everything's individually priced and the register's easy to use. Don't think you'll be bothered by any customers, though. Slow week.'

Meanwhile, Dean was sitting, miserably trying to pay attention to an episode of Casa Erotica on the motel's pay-per-view, but not having much luck. The mole on his cheek seemed to be _growing_. He could feel it spread its roots inside his cheek, settling in for the long haul. As if that wasn't bad enough, he was sprouting hair in places he never had it before. Not just on the shoulders but out the ears, the nostrils and even worse, down his neck. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he officially had a neckbeard. After trying and failing to shave it off – those bristles were hardy little buggers – he threw his razor at the bathroom mirror, causing a minute crack. 'Great,' he muttered. 'Seven years of bad luck.'

Now not even mediocre porn could keep him interested. He kept going over and over every event of the last couple of days in his head, trying to figure out what he had done to deserve this, and could come up with nothing. _Karma, my ass,_ he thought, remembering what Sam had said in the diner. _It's not like I told the poor girl she was a porker, or something horrible like that. I just … preferred to do business with Donna. What's wrong with that?_

Just as Dean was about to change the channel, there was a knock at the door. 'Maid service,' called a young-sounding voice. 'Would you like more towels?'

'Yes please,' Dean answered. 'Come in.'

The door opened, and in slipped a lovely young Hispanic girl in a pale pink uniform. 'Oh, I like your hat,' she giggled. 'Ayuh.'

'Uh … thanks.' Dean took it off and threw it aside, disgusted. If all he was going to get was bad Fargo jokes, he'd be better off showing her the real Dean Winchester. Warts and all. Make that, moles and all. He gave her one of his famous Dean Winchester smiles, complete with dimples. Chicks love dimples. 'What's your name?'

'Gita,' she said, peering at him with morbid fascination. 'What's that on your face?'

'Sammy,' Dean hissed into his cell while Gita cleaned the bathroom, 'I need a counter-spell, like, _yesterday_. My mojo's gone, man. I can't even … '

He reigned in what he was about to say seconds before he said it. Maybe Sam was right, after all. Maybe the reason for his sudden transformation to Barney from the Simpsons _did_ have to do with the way he treated people – those less aesthetically pleasing, anyway. A curse or a spell, whatever it was, it was working. It was forcing him to think about what came out of his mouth before it was too late. A sudden memory slipped back onto the tracks in his brain, as if pushed by an unseen force.

The memory of facing God's scribe, Metatron, not so long ago. What did he say to the little guy? Oh yeah, that's right, something along the lines of: You're a tubby little loser. Who would follow _you_? Those weren't his exact words, but they were bad enough. Sure, the guy _was_ bad news – he'd played Dean's BFF like a violin, all so he could steal Cas's grace and use it in a spell to close the gates of heaven, causing all the angels to fall to Earth. But did that make it right to torment the guy about his lousy choice of vessel?!

'I'm finished in here,' Gita announced, some fifteen minutes later. Dean didn't reply. Still lying on the bed, he'd turned toward the wall and was quietly crying himself to sleep.

Castiel stared at the gorgeous woman in front of him. It was hard to believe she was over four centuries old, give or take. She had long, flowing dark locks that fell to her waist, and was wearing a figure-hugging, ankle-length black dress. Thanks to all the information Metatron had stuffed his brain with, Matrix-like, he knew she reminded him of Morticia Addams from the old '50's black and white TV show. And, oddly, Meg. It hurt to think of Meg, so he shut her out.

'You're Mab,' he stated. 'You're looking good for someone older than the Crusades.'

She was. Her skin was pale, flawless; her figure, the classic hourglass. 'Why, Castiel,' she said, in a husky voice. 'Was that a compliment? Angels aren't known to compliment me. Most of them just want to shove their blades in me. And that's not a euphemism for sex, in case you were wondering.'

 _Please_ _don't talk about sex_ , Cas thought. That word in that voice was causing certain … stirrings.

'So I'll get to the point, shall I? Since you look like you're in pain. Cousin Xerxes tells me a friend of yours is the victim of an Inside-Out spell. Do you know how those work?'

'Uh … the subject is metaphorically turned inside out. People can see the beauty or the ugly inside. Can you reverse it?'

'Well, I'm not the one who cast it, so all I can do is perform a spell to tell you who did,' Mab told him. 'I'll need some ingredients.' She glanced around the shop. 'We should be able to find everything we need here. My cousin is so handy in a pinch, don't you think?'

'Oh, absolutely.'

He watched as Mab lit candles, spoke an ancient incantation and burned a map of the town until one area remained. She waved away the smoke and peered closer. 'A witch called Deidre owns the diner in the centre of town,' she informed Castiel. 'She's closing up now, but if you hurry you can catch her.'

'And she's the one who put the spell on Dean? You're sure?'

Mab laughed, and the sound was like whisky and orgasms. Cas shivered. 'Well, I know _I'm_ not,' she replied. 'Although Inside-Out spells can be amusing. You know they only last 24 hours, don't you? Your friend would do well to wait it out rather than risk incurring the wrath of the witch that cast it, by confronting her.'

'Ordinarily, I'd agree, but Dean's not the type to let sleeping dogs … uh, witches … lie. He'll want revenge.'

Mab shook her head. 'Humans. Impetuous, impulsive …'

'They mean the same thing, don't they?' Cas interrupted, then felt the need to clarify. 'Impetuous and impulsive?'

Mab's smooth brow flickered in consternation. 'Oh, you're right. No, I meant _re_ pulsive.' She laughed at Cas's alarmed expression. 'Oh, relax, Castiel. Just because I don't particularly truck with humans doesn't mean I want to obliterate them all. They're like hamsters on a wheel, to me. Cheap entertainment.'

'They're much, much more than that,' Cas told her. 'You don't give them enough credit.'

Mab looked surprised. 'Wow … an angel actually sticking up for God's little mud-monkeys. Who'd have thunk it?'

'Don't call them that.'

Mab took a few steps toward him. 'And just who is going to stop me? _You_?! You're subsisting on stolen grace, my friend. And it's wearing out. I can smell it on you. Death, I mean. Impending death.'

Cas swallowed. Mab was close enough that he could see every striation in her bright green eyes. She smelled like cotton candy. She smiled, serenely. 'Oh, but it would be a pity to see an end to the great Castiel. Rogue angel. Rebel. Hottie in a trench coat. If you want your grace back, I might be able to help you lay your hands on it. For a finder's fee, of course.'

'Of course.'

She winked. 'Keep me in mind.' And with that, she was gone.

'Dean. Dean, get up.'

Dean lifted his face off the pillow. A string of drool connected him to the pillow slip. 'Cas?'

'Yeah, it's me. Get up.'

'Where's Sammy?'

'Otherwise occupied, I imagine. I haven't seen him. Listen, I talked to Mab. She swears she didn't cast the spell. But she knows who did. You know the lady that owns the diner in town? The bad 80's retro café? It's her.'

Dean sat up like someone had shoved a stick of dynamite up his ass. 'Let's get her.' He grabbed his boots and started to pull them on.

'No wait … Mab says it's safer to just wait out the spell. But I was hoping I could persuade her to somehow reverse it.'

'How are you going to do that? The Jedi Mind Trick?'

Cas tilted his head and gave him a reproachful look. 'Even with my powers intact, I couldn't do that.'

'Why not? You can time travel, teleport … hell, you guys can vaporise someone by clicking your fingers. But you can't make them do what you want? What good are you?'

Cas looked hurt. 'You don't mean that.'

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. 'No … I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, Cas . I'm just on edge here.'

'Well, on the bright side, she said these types of spells only tend to last 24 hours. So there's that.'

' _Tend_ to last? So it might last longer.'

Cas shrugged. 'Depends on the spell, I guess. Mab called it an Inside Out spell. Everyone can see your inner beauty … or otherwise.'

'So this is the inner me?' Dean lamented. 'So what you're saying is, I've got an ugly soul. The old "beauty might be skin deep, but ugly cuts to the core" isn't just a witty meme, then?'

'I don't think this is your true soul, Dean,' Cas tried to reassure him. 'You've done so many good things; saved so many people. And you're a decent person, under all the …'

Dean stared up at him. 'Go on. Under all the what? Douchery?'

'I'm pretty sure that's not a word.'

'You want to quit being a Grammar Nazi for five minutes and help me kill this witch?'

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
